Buss Stop
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you’ve catkin skin-bound languid lips
fierce firework eyes, for sinking ships
one playful pout would ply and purse
every cast-off coward's carnal curse
oh all these things be mine, and more
should I slip, unseen, your cellar door
still, all those wonders, sweetly south
are but frosting to that melting mouth.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, November 13, 2022
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2023
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